


Nothing Worth Saying

by williamcain



Series: Workaday 40K [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Fencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-26 14:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamcain/pseuds/williamcain
Summary: Two Primarchs have a conversation about fencing, and what lies under it.





	Nothing Worth Saying

"You honestly should consider it, Leman," Guilliman said, as the two primarchs stepped into the practice hall on _Macragge's Honour_. Around them, two dozen Ultramarines snapped to attention before dropping onto one knee, heads bowed forward. 

The Wolf King sniffed, a deep gust of air as he looked at his brother's assorted sons. Even the ones in the cages had stopped their work to pay their respects. 

"I haven't much worth saying that most would listen to. Why would I bother writing it all down? That's your hobby."

Guilliman sighed, gesturing for his Ultramarines to resume their duties. Before he could reply to his brother, Russ spoke again.

"I said that badly. I know it's important, this great work of yours. It's just not something I'm ever going to do. I've nothing worth saying, not like that."

"You're wrong, you know." Guilliman said, settling into a seat, gesturing for Russ to take the one at his right side. The place of martial honor for his brother. The Wolf King cocked an eyebrow at that, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth as he nodded and settled his bulk into the chair. Had either of them been wearing their battle plate, neither chair would have survived the settling of their weight.

"And how is that, Roboute? How am I wrong about what I have to say?" The Wolf King's eye followed the practices as they resumed, taking the whole of the room in at a glance before settling on a match between two brothers from the First Company as they saluted with their blades, then began lashing at one another with expert, well-drilled strokes and counters.

"The Rout has a singular reputation. Every Legion is a powerhouse, with successes to be proud of, but few can boast...the _totality_ of success the Vylka Fenryka achieve." 

"Mm. Your point?" 

Guilliman stifled another sigh. His brother was not dense, and yet he could make any conversation a nightmare to get through. "That success comes from something besides simply being Astartes, brother. Knowing how you do what you do, the thought, the doctrine behind it, this would be invaluable to me. I want to know your mind."

"Ehn." Russ' reply was noncomittal. Indeed, he wasn't paying particular attention to the conversation anymore, it seemed. He was watching the fight intently, eyes flicking between the two battle brothers, as if searching for something he wasn't seeing. 

"Do you have something to say?" Guilliman asked, his temper slipping slightly into the words. He'd thought this would be a good chance to know his brother better, but Leman was-

"What in the world are you teaching these whelps?"

That got a blink. "..what do you mean by that?"

Russ gestured, expression irritated. "This swordplay. It's so wasteful."

Guilliman blinked yet again, sitting back as he looked at his sons. Their swordplay was correct, as far as he could see. "What are you-" Then he stopped, considering his words. "How is it wasteful, brother?"

"Two moves when one will do. Tap, slap, tap, slap." The Wolf King shook his head. "That one, the Sergeant, almost has it, but he's still got a beat in the middle. Every time."

"It's our doctrine of swordplay, neutralize the threat, then strike without impediment." 

"It's not swordplay. It's knife fighting dressed up." Russ sighed. "I'm being rude again. Forget-"

"Show me?" Guilliman asked, voice low. 

Russ looked to his brother. "Hmh?"

"Show me what you mean. Show me how you'd do it." Guilliman rose, picking up a pair of the larger combat swords. In his sons' hands, they would be longswords, held in two fists, but to the larger bulk of the primarchs, they would do nicely to simulate the combat blades his sons used. 

"What's the point? It works for you, I'm just venting." Russ made no move to rise. 

Guilliman let a smile play on his face. "I know you wolves like your howling, but surely you're not _just_ hot air."

That did it. Russ snapped a glare to his brother, then smirked and rose up, taking the offered blade. Around them voices hushed and practices stopped as the two primarchs stepped into the largest practice cage. Russ shed his rough tunic and stood stripped to the waist opposite his brother, his massive physique covered in the faded lines of many, many scars. Guilliman replaced his own simple robelike tunic with a sparring jacket and stood across, saluting his brother. Around them, the Ultramarines gathered to watch this match. 

Russ returned the salute, in his own way. Where Guilliman had raised the blade before his face, upright in the formal gesture, Russ shook his sword once at his brother, in a stance that very much said "I am here, and I bring this blade to you." The buzzer sounded, and the Primarchs moved.

Russ struck first, as expected. His blade came in with a powerful thrust. Guilliman parried and stepped in, bringing his sword to Leman's neck. The Wolf King simply nodded, and retreated. 

"So what do you see wrong in that?" Guilliman asked, returning to his starting point as well. 

"Two motions where one'd do." Russ said, shrugging. "Wasteful. You're better than that broken strike."

Guilliman frowned. Then he lunged in, a replica of Russ' strike. It was powerful, and it was a fast thrust, delivered with a skill that eclipsed anything his sons, or Russ' sons for that matter, could replicate.

Thus it was with shock he felt the Wolf King's blade at his own neck, having barely seen Russ move. "What..." 

And then his memory played it over. Russ had thrust right back at him, but twisted as he came in. He hadn't separated the motions at all; as he'd lunged in, he'd been twisting his blade even as it intercepted Guilliman's sword, and brought it against Robute's neck. If it had been in earnest, the blow would have stabbed him clean through the throat.

"...again." Guilliman said, and Russ raised a brow. He'd heard that voice before. Heard it when Guilliman demanded a report of his soldiers, when he ordered an attack. 

He'd never been given such a tone by one of his brothers. And yet, he found himself resetting, a smile on his face. He could honor his brother's interest. "Alright..." And the lesson continued, as the Wolf King spoke with his brother on the Rout's way of the sword.

*****

_In clashing with a foe, let your attack be your defence. To parry and strike is to break the perfect blow in two. Strike as the Rout strikes, and break the enemy's attack with your own. Herein follows the lesson of the master cut, the blow that sets aside the enemy's strike even as you cut him down._ Excerpts from notes on the Codex Astartes.


End file.
